Broken Boy Soldier
by Lassroyale
Summary: Zachariah tries to break the bond between Dean and Castiel by brutalizing Dean – with Castiel’s vessel. Afterwards, things are not the same…and perhaps they never will be. Please note: This story contains non-con and explicit imagery of violent sex.


**Title:** Broken Boy Soldier

**Authors:** Lassroyale

**Warning: **NON-CON, violent imagery, fisting

**Spoilers:** For 5.01

**Rating: **NC-17

**Word Count:** 4363

**Pairings:** Dean/Castiel by proxy Zachariah

**Summary:** Zachariah tries to break the bond between Dean and Castiel by brutalizing Dean – with Castiel's vessel. Afterwards, things are not the same…and perhaps they never will be.

**A/N: **This was written for a prompt in the [info]deancaskinkmeme [info]zooeyre wanted the following prompt: Zac possesses Castiel's vessel and rapes Dean, trying to break the bond between him and Cas. When Castiel gets back into his body, Dean is scared of him and Sam won't let him near Dean. Eventually Dean learns the truth and there's some fluff.

I mostly followed the prompt, but I can't justify fluff at the end so I changed that part up a bit.

Please Read and Review!!!

*******

It could have happened anywhere. It shouldn't have happened at all.

As it was, it happened in a filthy gas station bathroom off of I-10, somewhere near New Orleans. There was unidentifiable scum in the cracks of the tile and every available surface was coated in a fine layer of grime. Even the walls bore a sheen of perpetual dampness, as if they too had been sweating all day in the Louisiana heat.

Dean stood in front of a small mirror that hung lopsidedly above the sink, and stared at his dingy reflection. He stared at himself like he would stare at an old friend who had somehow, through the ravages of time, become a stranger. The fine collection of lines around his eyes had deepened, looking less like laugh lines and more like true wrinkles. Honest. Inevitable. Real. Stress made him drawn and worn; in contrast, anger gave him a mottled flush to across the back of his neck and the apples of his cheeks.

Sammy. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He couldn't regret what he said. He didn't regret it, harsh, as it had been. For once, Dean wasn't going hold back the sharp edges of his tongue; for once, he was going to file his teeth into points and let them cut and tear.

Screw it: for once, Dean Winchester was going to be true to himself.

The lights overhead, already dim beneath a coating of dirt, began to flicker. Dean could feel something creep up from deep within his belly to curl around his heart; a riot of emotion that he had forgotten existed in the hard and fast turmoil of Lucifer's rising.

Cas. Elation stood shoulder to shoulder with anxiety, while anger and frustration circled at their feet. Amongst all of that - steadfast and so beautiful he was terrified to define it – a different emotion altogether, took root.

Dean jammed his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling.

He had thought Castiel was dead. He'd called on every bit of his training to stop himself from throttling Chuck, when the man was describing what had happened to the angel. Even then, only his desperation to learn the truth and Sam's presence, had kept him from beating the prophet's face bloody.

He turned just as the angel appeared. It was always a bit disorienting; one minute there was nothing occupying the space in front of him, and the next it was filled with the enormity of the angel's presence. Dean's stomach gave a small lurch at the sensation of reality rearranging itself, expanding and contracting, then stitching itself back together with frayed thread.

The feeling, however, was nothing compared to how his world seemed to tilt when he looked into Castiel's dark blue eyes.

"Dean," said the angel, "we need to talk." His voice sounded a little odd to Dean's ears, like his inflection was suddenly different; more formal and carrying a smoother cadence. Usually Cas sounded a bit like he was just learning how to fit words together, his speech slow, methodical, and somewhat halting.

Dean was tired, however, and his whole body was buzzing with a sense of apprehension and eagerness that was completely inappropriate for the situation. It was possible that whatever had happened to Castiel from when he had supposedly died until now, had changed him; perhaps irrevocably. "Cas," he muttered, dragging his eyes away from the angel's gaze, "I'm," he stopped, his throat dry, the words unraveling before he could say them. "Shit," he swore, and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "I'm glad you're okay," he finally conceded.

Something settled into the angel's expression then; a paper-thin veil of malice that stretched like a membrane across his vessel's skin. It was all the warning that Dean got, and by then it was too late.

The punch caught him across the jaw, Castiel's fist too solid – unnatural - as it connected with bone and flesh. It felt like he had been hit with a lead pipe. Dean stumbled, his surprise and disbelief quickly discarded for rage and survival instinct. He feinted to the left and tried to duck around the angel's lunge, but he was just a second too slow; his body responded just a second too late.

Castiel delivered another punch with the same force as a sledgehammer. It caught Dean just below the ribs, cracking one and lifting him up and off his feet. He fell back heavily, grabbing the sink for support as he gasped and tried to draw air into his lungs. The angel grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head down against the stained porcelain with inhuman strength. The sink buckled beneath the impact of Dean's skull cracking against it; it split and broke, crashing to the floor.

Dean went with it. He choked on his own blood, warm and metallic in the back of his throat. When he spat, a tooth skittered across the tile. He could feel a large gash over his brow and already he could feel the left side of his face begin to swell. Underlying the stench of his own blood and sweat, was an acerbic bite of fear he could taste in the corners of his mouth.

The bathroom began to flood as Dean sluggishly tried to gain his feet. His palms slipped and slid in the dirty water that spread across the floor and the smell of sewage made his stomach turn. Droplets of blood turned the water red as it rolled down his chin and splashed against the wet floor.

He heard Cas' footsteps behind him. Each step came down heavily; deliberate. Each one echoed with threats and dark promises.

"Fuck you, you angelic sonofabitch!" spat Dean, his words thick and muddled as he tried to speak with a bitten tongue. "Fu-" his words were cut off when Castiel pressed his foot against the back of his head, crushing it against the sodden, cold floor. He felt pieces of cracked sink dig painfully into his swollen cheek. His breathing became pinched and labored when the angel dug the heel of his other foot into the spot where his rib had broken.

The hem of Castiel's coat trailed through the puddle on the floor as he bent and gathered another handful of Dean's hair between his fingers hauled him up. Dean's legs felt like rubber as he tried to stand, pain shooting through his chest and head. Cas looped an arm around his waist, supporting him, and then, almost carelessly, he tossed the man hard into the wall, face-first.

Dean's head smacked against the solid tile with a crack that resonated through the bathroom, momentarily rendering him incapable of thought or speech. He was dizzy and he hurt, no, scratch that; he really fucking hurt. Disoriented, he stumbled and began to fall, until Castiel pressed his body hard against his back.

With no effort whatsoever, the angel jerked his arms above his head and pinned them there with one hand.

Cas' fingers radiated a chill that bit deeply into his flesh, so bitterly cold that his wrists felt raw where they were clamped over his skin. Dean felt an unusual vibration humming beneath the pads of those strong, frigid fingers; a resonance that seemed off-key and discordant as it pulsated through his pores.

"Fushyou, Cashtiel," he slurred. His face was mashed against wall making it hard to speak. The angel punched him in the back of the head and his teeth scraped against the brick with an ugly noise.

Still not speaking a word, Castiel hooked the fingers of his free hand into the waistband of Dean's jeans, blunt nails digging into the other's skin almost suggestively. He tore them from the Dean's body with one violent motion, the seams tearing as the material was forcibly wrenched apart. Dean felt the humid air stroke his thighs and something in him snapped.

He began to struggle desperately, panic, fear, and outright fury overtaking every other sense. He bucked against the angel frantically, straining fruitlessly against the iron grip that held him pinned. This couldn't happen, it couldn't! Not again… Hell was one thing; it was pretty much goddamned expected that he would be used as a convenient hole for the demons. This was entirely different.

Cas dropped his own trousers with more care. The sound of his pants sliding over his legs to pool at his ankles sent Dean into a blind panic. He shoved backwards with all of his strength and managed to upset the angel's balance for a moment, but not loosen his grip. He drew his head back as far as he could and then, without thinking twice, bashed his forehead into the wall violently. When he drew his head back again, there was a smear of red on the drywall.

If he couldn't escape he'd damn well make sure he was senseless.

As Dean attempted to smash his head into the wall again, Castiel placed a hand beneath his chin and forced his face upward until he was staring blindly at the ceiling, effectively halting him from further harming himself.

"Oh no, Dean Winchester," the angel reprimanded, "you must be awake for this."

With those words and without warning or preparation, Cas released Dean's chin and shoved three fingers up the man's ass to the knuckle. Dean's cry was choked as he jerked and tried to bend away from the intrusion and the pain. Castiel responded by twisting his fingers cruelly, curling them inside Dean's body as he methodically began to piston them in and out of his clenched hole.

He tore the hunter as he added a fourth finger, then a fifth, blood flowing down over hand to drip onto the floor when he suddenly made a fist and shoved it up into the other's body, to the wrist. Muscle tore with an audible noise, skin stretching and ripping to accommodate the brutal intrusion. Dean's shout of agony was louder this time, though it was reduced to a strained moan when the angel began to shove his fist in and out of him with mechanical precision.

He couldn't remember being so torn or feeling so full. It felt like Cas was splitting him in two, reaching up through his ass to the grasp the very apex of his being and rip it apart. The pain wasn't dull at all. It was instead so sharp and intense that he became violently sick from it. He vomited all over himself. The bile splattered against the wall and slid down his shirt, the smell of his sickness mixing with the smell of blood and shit and feverish, clammy sweat that rolled down his back and made his shirt cling to him.

Castiel removed his fist after an indeterminate amount of time, and shoved his fingers into Dean's mouth before he could shut it. Dean could taste fluid and blood and the proof of his incontinence on his tongue. It filled his mouth and dribbled down his throat, and in that moment he hated himself.

He hated his weakness. He hated the fact that he had seen fit to trust a goddamned angel. They were no better than the demons; hell, they were fucking worse. Demons were in a way honest. You knew what you were getting into with a demon right away.

The angels were sneaky bastards who told lies and forced their will on those who questioned their coda. The angels toyed with people, making them feel things that were terrifying and wonderful, all at once. They made people feel hope in the stupid tilt of their head and serious, grave expressions.

And then those sons of bitches took it all away.

"Taste your shame, Dean," Castiel muttered into his ear, shoving his slick fingers deeper into the hunter's mouth. "Imbibe your filth as you did in Hell."

Dean choked on the flavor of his humiliation and vomited again, bile and drool dribbling down his chin.

"Good soldier," praised the angel. With those words he thrust into Dean's torn, loose hole and slid into him until the back of the man's thighs were flush with his own. It was mostly a perfunctory act, or so it felt to Dean, though each thrust of Castiel's hips sent new pain, new hate, and new self-loathing coursing through him.

All the while he kept whispering, "Good soldier, good soldier," into Dean's ear.

*******

When it was over and Cas pulled out of his abused body, Dean felt the energy drain from him as the angel's semen seeped down his legs. He collapsed into a worn heap against the wall and lay prone in his own blood, shit, and vomit, unable to will himself to move. Castiel tucked himself back into his pants, stooping to press his lips to Dean's brow. "You're a good soldier, Dean," he intoned quietly, "you take your punishment with surprising fortitude."

The angel rose and turned away, pausing as he unlocked the door to the bathroom and walked out. As he disappeared through the doorway, Dean heard him say one last thing. "And now you know your worth."

Sam found him a moment later, his large frame filling the door and blocking out the light from the outside. "Dean I just thought I saw Cas - holy shit! Dean! Fuck, Dean!" cried Sam, panic and fear in his voice as he rushed to his brother's side.

Dean couldn't even acknowledge his brother's presence. He was ashamed that Sam found him like this; ashamed that he was too weak to hide the evidence of his own humiliation.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," said his brother, holding back his flood of panic by affecting a hard, decisive tone. Sam gathered him to his broad chest and hauled him up. Dean shuddered with a fresh wave of nausea and pain as his injured body was jostled, but managed to keep his feet as Sammy gingerly pulled up his pants and fastened them around his waist. He swayed on his feet, still gripped by the feel of Castiel's fist in his ass; still gripped by the feel of Castiel's breath across the back of his neck.

'Good soldier...'

Dean didn't hear Sam's shout as he crumpled and collapsed, unconsciousness finally offering its blissful embrace.

*******

There were few emotions that were so poignant, so consuming, so destructive, as hate. It was a feeling that was foreign to Castiel, yet he found that once discovered, he wore it easily - too easily. It slipped into the creases of his thoughts, lurking, ever-present beneath even the most mundane musings. At the most random times it would come storming up from below, or perhaps it descended from on high; either way, Castiel had learned the feel of it settling over him quite well.

It was not a heavy emotion, either; rather, it made the inside of the angel's head feel curiously empty, as if thoughts couldn't stick when such an emotion was present.

And it was present.

Castiel could feel the hate spike like a solar flare through him when he thought about what Zachariah had done through him. It made him ashamed to think that he had once looked up to him, admired him even, giving him the respect he didn't deserve with the unquestioning loyalty of a younger brother. It made him hot, bothered, and it made his vessel's skin feel like it was alive, clawing over sinews and veins.

It made him want to launch out of the confinement of Jimmy Novak's body and wreck havoc on any being he came across. He wanted to burn the eyes from those whose souls were mired in sin.. He wanted to scream with this true voice the pain and frustration, which was new to him and for which he had no tools to cope.

Mostly he wanted to hold Dean, rock him, murmur to him that he was sorry, that he hadn't been strong enough to prevent Zachariah from sliding into his vessel alongside him. He wanted to apologize, hold Dean's hand, and tell him that he hadn't had the strength to do anything but watch.

And it was that memory, the memory of Dean's body as he tore the man open, the memory of how Dean felt, clenched then loose around his fist and manhood, which allowed Castiel to truly understand him. Perhaps it was the first time he truly did.

The memories made him hate himself, hate what he was, and hate the idea that maybe this had all been part of some divine plan.

Finally, Castiel understood Dean's self-loathing. Finally, he understood the doubt, the bitterness, the need to run and hide and pretend. Not for the first time he thought about Anna and how she had decided to forgo immortality and live a mortal life, cutting out her grace to fall, wingless, vulnerable, and alone, from Heaven's lofty nest.

The memories would still be there, however. Castiel was certain of it. Those would never go away.

*******

Dean knew he was there. Even through the fog of pain medication and hazy confusion, he could feel the bastard like a physical weight against him. He could feel him along the outline of the handprint on his shoulder, burning like cold hellfire; like ice twice frozen. The sensation cut straight to the heart and froze it solid.

He could taste him in the air itself and he could hear him in the patterned beeping of the monitors he was hooked up to. His presence rolled through his chest like a miasma.

Castiel.

The angel was in his fucking skin; Dean could still smell the odor of his sex mixed with sweat and blood.

Though Dean's eyes were closed, he began to tremble uncontrollably. His heart rate accelerated, the monitors erupting into cacophony of whirrs and beeps. His palms began to sweat and his limbs felt like lead.

He couldn't move and he sorely wanted to. He wanted to scream and shout and curse. He wanted to hit and kick and fucking hurt the sonofabitch. As it was he could only lie there and shake like a kicked dog. Pathetic, fucking pathetic. He was too weak, too worn out, too goddamn scared, to do anything more than just crack open his eyes and glare blearily at the angel at his bedside.

"Dean," said Castiel in a soft, grave voice. It was a familiar voice, one whose cadence didn't seem slightly off; one whose tone reflected nothing but pitiful misery.

Dean couldn't feel pity though; not when the doctors had told his brother that it would take a few weeks to heal. Not when they had said that the extent of the damage done could have some permanent effects.

They had thought he was sleeping when they had pulled Sam aside to speak in the universally low, reserved tones of doctors around the world who had to bad news to bear. The words, 'infection' and 'ruptured' and 'psychological damage' had been used. They had made Sam promise to force Dean to see a therapist and maybe get him on some anti-depressants when this was all over.

Bullshit. All Dean needed to do was recover enough to get out of this damn hospital bed and get back to hunting; back to trying to figure out a plan to kill Lucifer. Maybe then he could get back to a life free of celestial beings breathing down his neck.

All he knew was that he needed to move and do something. He needed to drown in the hunt, in blood, in teeth, in the dust of bones.

"Dean," said Castiel again, shifting closer - too close, he could feel him at his back, pressing into him, his fist twisting inside of his body - "I want to explain. That was not me. Zachariah...overpowered me and possessed this body. "He," the angel paused, considering his next words, "he wanted to sever the bonds between us."

Finally Dean found his voice, though he visibly recoiled when Castiel tried to touch his arm. "That's a fucking lie," he spat, his voice hoarse and laced with an indefinable emotion. It wasn't quite hate, but it was close. "There is no bond between us to be broken. That was just another one of those fucking angelic lies."

Dean tried not to notice how Cas flinched from his words, drawing back stiffly as if a wall had suddenly sprung up between them. He tried not to notice the tightening of his heart, protesting the lie as it sloughed off of his tongue. He hardened himself, and closed himself off. His expression became smooth and flat; dead.

"Dean," said Castiel suddenly, "please...you must know...you must believe me...I would never do something that horrific to you." He sounded earnest and Dean could see the desperation in his dark blue eyes. He ignored it.

"Wouldn't you?" he said nastily. "You would if God told you too. Maybe that was it, maybe the big guy upstairs told you to come down and rape a little sense into me. Make me tow the line, be Michael's vessel, save the goddamn world." He shifted away, trembling again, as Castiel leaned forward like he was unable to help but be inexorably drawn into Dean's orbit. "You two are all buddy buddy now, ain't you?"

Quicker than Dean could anticipate, the angel reached out and grasped his arm, his fingers finding the handprint with unerring accuracy. He stared at Dean, pain, regret, and distress apparent in the tilt of his body. He opened his mouth but was interrupted before he could say anything in response.

"What the hell are you doing here?" roared a voice, two parts furious and one part fearful. Sam barreled into the room, his long legs closing the space between them quickly. The younger Winchester forcibly inserted his body between the angel and his brother, and shoved Castiel back with strength augmented by adrenaline and anger.

"You have no right to be here," spat Sam, "not after what you did." The tall man shoved Castiel again and thrust him up against the wall. "You stay away from Dean," he warned, as he wrapped one large hand around his throat, "or I will find a way to kill you."

Castiel looked over Sam's shoulder at Dean, who was resolutely staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He sighed and nodded. When Sam loosened his grip, the angel disappeared with a rush of air.

*******

Dean couldn't shake the feeling that had passed through him when Castiel had laid his hand over the brand on his arm. It had sent a spark of something benign, almost pleasant through him; it hadn't felt malevolent in the least. And yet, whenever he thought about the angel, the sharp flavor of repulsion made his stomach turn.

Despite Sam's best efforts to be vigilant, he couldn't always be there. During one of those times, Castiel came to Dean again.

"Just can't follow a simple order, can ya?" muttered Dean, as he picked disinterestedly at a can of pineapple the hospital had provided with his meal. He sniffed at a piece, frowned, and then pushed it to one corner of his tray. "I was thinkin' about what you said," he muttered gruffly, "and I decided you were tellin' the truth."

Castiel sat down in a seat near the foot of the bed and looked at Dean carefully. "What changed your mind?" he asked carefully. Dean looked at hard at him, scrutinizing for an uncomfortably long time.

Finally, he looked away. "Zachariah paid me a visit," he conceded at last, "and that sonofabitch tried to make me agree to be a goddamn angel condom for Michael. I told him to stick it when the son don't shine, and you know what his response to that was?" Dean swallowed, angry and hurt, unshed tears shining in his green eyes. "He called me a 'good soldier.' That fucking asshole."

Castiel could feel something tighten in his chest at the thought of Zachariah coming anywhere near Dean again. He moved closer, stopping immediately when the hunter flinched back from him.

"Don't Cas, just don't," said Dean harshly, a few tears rolling down his swollen face. "I can't even stand the fucking sight of you." He wiped angrily at the wetness trailing down his face, but he couldn't stop the tears from coming. "It was your body, your smell, your fucking voice…it's all I can think about when I look at your goddamn face."

The angel sat down heavily, feeling like something had just been ripped from him; something necessary, something vital to his being. He looked miserably at Dean, but kept his distance. "Will it ever be okay?" he asked solemnly.

"I dunno," Dean answered.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No."

"As you wish."

So Castiel remained and sat in a heavy, thick silence, staring helplessly at Dean while the hunter turned his head and pretended to sleep.

For now, that would have to be enough.

(The End.)


End file.
